Island
by bagheera
Summary: BRAVE NEW WORLD by Aldous Huxley :: Bernard and Helmholtz, exiled on the Falklands:: I believe this is is the very first and only fic to the novel.. if not, tell me!
1. Island

Disclaimer: Mr Marx and Mr Watson are property of Aldous Huxley, as well as the idea of the ‚Brave new world'. The Falklands are property of either Argentine or the UK or themselves. 

Warnings: None at all. Can you rate anything PG because of political or philosophical content?

AN: So here it is. The very first "Brave New World" fanfiction in history. Or so I think. I skimmed the net and could not find a single piece written to this novel. Why? There is a whole bunch of 1984 fiction. Maybe because there is no film. Or only a very bad film. 

But after reading the book for the third time, I had to write. It is, somehow, just a continuation of the story, about Bernard and Helmholtz on the Falklands. Maybe I'll write more. 

If there is anybody out there who knows the book, or is interested in fanfiction, then REVIEW, please. Tell me. I would like to know J 

(bagheera)

"Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, 

Hath not old customs make this life more sweet 

Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods 

More free from peril than the envious court! 

Here feel we not the penalty of Adam, 

The seasons difference; as the icy fang 

And churlish chiding of the winters wind, 

Which when it bites and blows upon my body, 

Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say 

This is no flattery; these are counsellors 

That feelingly persuade me what I am. 

Sweet are the uses of adversity; 

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, 

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; 

And this our life, exempt from public haunt, 

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 

Sermons in stones, and good in everything. 

I would not change it"

(William Shakespeare)

Island 

From a pinpoint of brownish green shade amidst the waste grey of stormy ocean it had risen to a twin island of two mirrored shapes of rock and mountain, of snow and clouds. Its coast was frayed, the whole island looking not much more than a rock falling apart, eaten by the sea. 

But when they had stepped out of the rocket, they had been in heaven. Real heaven. Or more like, in the sky. Never had he seen a place where there was so much endless sky, even the ground was sky, sky reflected by numerous shining clear lakes, by the sea, by the ice, the whole island so endless and pure it was like sky itself, rather than earth. Only seeing this made him want to speak in verses, to sing in rhymes, to .... but before he could utter a single sound, his breath was taken away by a breeze that was hardly a breeze at all. It was a wind so harsh that it tore away the air from one's mouth and made it hard to breathe. But only at first. Then it reached your lungs, violently fresh and cold, like you had just breathed for the first time in your life. 

And all the scents - or was it the absence of scent? Nothing here, he was absolutely, positively sure, was synthetic. All there was the scent of cold, of ice and snow, the chaste scent of wind in winter, the wild note of salt and sea mingled with it. 

And it felt like you were expanding into every direction, freed from any restriction and restraint, into sky and into the wind and into the lakes and the sea and the stones and the ice, into all the empty, empty space... like suddenly you were becoming something much bigger than you had ever been before. 

To Helmholtz Watson, the Falkland Islands were beautiful. 

It had been August, when they had left London, and here it was winter, but not like the winters he had known in his old life, the shallow mild winters of London, the winters of heating and surrogate-silk umbrellas. It was snow that was white, and it was not surrogate-snow either, it was ice that was freezing cold, it was a winter that crept into every fibre of your bones, it was a winter that claimed you, that made your eyes teary and your nose red, a challenging, fierce winter, a real winter. He had been right, very right, to choose this exile. What were the tropics but another childish playground? 

Then they had checked out of the Mount Pleasant – what a name! – Airport and finally into the real world of the exiled. How small, how old the buildings. Mending seemed to be much preferred from ending in this place. The streets narrow, no helicopters, cars it were, little, nearly soundless electrical cars. They were fetched by one that hardly could contain the two men and their few – well in Bernard's case not so few – possessions. The smaller man had brought everything that he could possibly carry in a last fit of greed and fear. The driver of the vehicle was, to Helmholtz utter surprise, not a lower caste man, but indeed somebody who had to be Alpha or Beta – but he was not wearing neither grey nor orange, no, he wore not uniform at all. 

"Welcome to the Falklands, Mr...Watson, is it?" the broad-faced, dark-haired driver asked. His look was one of calm and polite interest. He had looked up his name on a sheet of paper he had produced from his shirt pocket while driving. 

"Yes, thank you very much, Mr .."

"Evan. Albert Evan. I'm the local director's secretary. And you are Mr Marx, I suppose?" he turned to Bernard who sat on the backseat, staring out of the little window. As soon as he heard his name, his expressionless face became glum and he visibly shrunk into himself. 

"Bernard Marx," he said as if this name alone was a reason to pity him. 

But Evan seemed satisfied and turned his face to Helmholtz once more. Maybe he had Indian ancestors, Helmholtz thought, as he studied his narrow, black and sharp eyes and his dark complexion. Evan was probably older than they both were, his body still appeared young as everyone's, but his face had the most curious little lines. But maybe that was the wind. He had read somewhere that people could get wrinkles from constantly being exposed to the weather (which might have been a reason that everyone preferred to be inside if the weather was bad.)

They drove from the airport to Stanley, the capital of the Falklands, which had been destroyed during the Nine Year War and build up only much later when the Falklands had been turned into an outpost of civilisation destined for the exiled, as Evan explained to them in an even and pleasant voice. But neither Helmholtz nor the brooding Bernard were all too attentive. Only when they reached the "city" they were startled into attention. 

Stanley was smaller than any of the London suburbs, smaller than even a small town in the countryside. In fact, Bernard thought with a groan, it was even smaller than the reservation settlements. And the houses were stunted and old, like bent dwarves among the rocks and wiry grass, crouched in the snow, shying away from the cold and the weather. No glass surface, no shining steel, no chromium. The only house that stood over these small ones was a very little tower, like a miniature skyscraper, blunt and grey. They drove until they stood directly in front of it and could read the plain white letters stating :

'FALKLAND ISLANDS ADMINISTRATION CENTRE'

"There we are. Follow me, if you would," their driver said with a somehow wry smile. Helmholtz jumped out of the car, smiling grimly at the rough wind that was now blowing little snowflakes at him, and Bernard followed them, hunching his shoulders and sending nervous and at the same time contemptuous glares at everything and nothing in particular. 

They were lead up a small staircase, into a spacious and somehow cosy office, that struck Helmholtz as unusual although he couldn't quite place in which way. Only at the second look did he notice the small man by the window who stood with his back to them.

"Our new guests, Director Erlenmeyer," Evan announced and then retreated into the hallway, closing the heavy doors behind him and thus making Bernard look even more nervous. His previous meetings with Directors of any facility had never been pleasant. 

Erlenmeyer turned around slowly, revealing the small, but very intelligent face of a man in his late fifties – but neither of the two young men had ever seen a man in his fifties, and so they looked most alarmed, Helmholtz for once even more than Bernard, for the psychologist had at least seen the savages. The director had dark hair and thick, jet-black eyebrows that were made to frown in a contemplative manner, a long, aquiline nose and lined cheeks and the most calm but sharp dark eyes, very much alike Evan. 

He studied the two young men in front of him, Helmholtz in all his proud and confident height and handsome features, and Bernard, glum, defiant, mistrusting glare. He smiled. 

"Watson and Marx," he said without having to look at any file or paper. 

"Transferred to me for 'indecent behaviour in the public', 'subversive ideas' and 'unorthodox thoughts'. The usual, I dare say," he said with a good-natured humour that reminded Helmholtz instantly of the World Controller Mond. 

Bernard made a motion as if to speak up, but remained silent. 

Erlenmeyer went to his desk and sat down in a rather plain chair, motioned them to sit down in two old and rather hard and squeaky leather-surrogate armchairs and folded his hands. He had extraordinarily nice, long fingers. 

"My name is Erlenmeyer and I am what you could call the director of this place. I will also personally be responsible for you and will see to it that you find your place in our little society. As you might know, the Falklands are what we call an 'Island State'. That means that we are, not economically, but politically autonomous. All the people have been sent here for different reasons, but let me tell you that yours are not uncommon. Also, we are only Alphas, Betas and an occasional Gamma. Lower caste people are not sent to islands. Once you are here, you are free to do and to behave as you like, as long you don't hurt other members of our society in doing so. We call that 'freedom of the individual'." Helmholtz nodded in acknowledgement and also with growing enthusiasm, Bernard remained mistrusting. 

"But once you are here, you also will never go back. Your conditioning is considered a 'failure' and therefore you are considered a 'danger to society's happiness.'" Bernard snorted desolately at this. 

"No protest? Good." The director smiled encouragingly at the pair. 

"So you are Alpha plus, the two of you. Mr Marx is a specialist in hypnopaedic conditioning – I'm afraid, Mr Marx, you'll be out of work. We don't have children here, nor do we intend to use emotional conditioning on anyone." He turned to Helmholtz.

"And you, Mr Watson, I have heard say, are an extremely talented Emotional Engineer. I'm very sorry to say, but I believe there is no work for you either." Helmholtz looked for a moment lost and insecure, which was very unusual. Bernard noticed and felt a small triumph. Even Helmholtz was not always lucky. But, as if to spite him, Helmholtz beamed at the Director with his handsome smile and said:

"Well, I didn't want to continue my work anyway. I rather intended to focus on my own writing."

"Your own writing?" The director looked intrigued. 

"Yes. I do write for my own pleasure," Helmholtz bravely and proudly admitted his sacrilege.

"Fascinating. Yes, we do have artists from time to time... poetry or prose?"

"Verses. I write rhymes. But maybe I will try prose as well." Bernard envied his friend for his confidence that he indeed would write. 

"I'll be pleased to hear them some time," Erlenmeyer said with a friendly smile and an almost wink. Bernard goggled. 

"And you Mr Marx? Do you have plans as well?"

"I-" Bernard rasped and fell silent. He did not. He shook his head, awaiting the inevitable disapproval. But Erlenmeyer only nodded to himself as if making a mental note and then got up. 

"Are there any questions left?" A short silence. 

"Where will we live?" Bernard asked. 

"Evan will show you to your apartment. Anything else?" Erlenmeyer suddenly coughed, and did recover only after a short while. Both young men felt uncomfortable for they were not used to illness or weakness. 

Then Helmholtz suddenly and dynamically got up and shook the directors hands.

"Thank you very much, Director Erlenmeyer," he said with honest gratefulness, while Bernard only nodded, and "I'm sure there will be other questions, but for now I think we are both tired."

"Of course. Evan will show you everything. Ask him anything, he knows as much as I do. And of course you are always free to come to me," he added with a wink. 

"Good evening, Mr Marx, Mr Watson." He smiled and guided them out of his office. In front of the administration building, Evan waited at the car, getting in when they arrived. They followed hm and soon they were driving again, while the sun was setting early, and in colours that were more beautiful than any synthetic image could ever have been. Helmholtz was happy, and tired and for the first time in his life, it seemed, happiness was not something shallow and incomplete. 


	2. Everything I do not miss

A/N: Thank you very much for your reviews! You actually made me post this chapter, too. So there are people who are writing Brave New World, they're just not posting it!

2 Everything I do not miss

Bernard scowled angrily at the screeching brakes and dust that was the car of their driver. Now they were completely alone, silence and dark sky stretched into infinity, the wailing wind the only sound under the clouds. It was piercingly cold, the road was frozen. Bernard, struggling with his much to heavy suitcases slithered and stumbled until suddenly his feet were drawn from underneath him and he fell to his knees, dropping the luggage and spilling the contents of one bag.

He cried out like a disappointed child, hammering with his fists on the suitcases and started to sob, defiant and undignified, just like a little infant, Helmholtz thought, feeling terribly embarrassed although they were alone.

"Bernard..." he said, stepping behind him. 

"I hate it, I hate it, I hate it! Why, why me! This terrible, horrible place!" 

Helmholtz, sighing, knelt down behind his friend. He wanted to go into their new house, which was only a few metres away, and seemed comfortable enough with its promise of warmth. Instead he touched Bernard's gaunt shoulders, felt him shiver and sob, and tried to be gentle and patient. He was good-willed by nature, but sometimes Bernhard's seemingly infinite self- pity was pushing even him to his limits. 

"Come on," he prodded, "Let's pick it up again, let's go inside...," with his best persuading voice, nearly as good as the synthetic anti-riot speeches. Bernard tried to push him away, his sobbing becoming angrier. 

"No, no I don't want it! I don't want it anymore! Leave me alone!"

"It's freezing cold! Please Bernard, be reasonable..." 

"Go away!" Bernard yelled. Helmholtz, with an exasperated noise, got up and picked up the spilt clothing and other items, took all of Bernard's luggage but the suitcase he was still clinging to, and easily lifted it. 

"Come on. Let's go inside. I'll leave you alone, but let's go inside." Silence, sniffing. 

"You'll freeze to death!" 

"Yes! Yes, I will!"

  
Helmholtz was stunned speechless. Suicide was a concept alien to him, even the thought of it was strongly prohibited by the conditioning. Everyone had to be happy, had to be useful. It took him some moments to grasp what Bernard meant, that he intended to die, to deliberately die. It was hilarious, but also obscene, almost as much as saying : "Mother". Of course, Bernard wasn't serious, he'd never be, he was too squeamish by any means to ever even seriously consider suicide. But the thought of it alone was insane. Typically Bernard.

  
"But.." was the only thing Helmholtz managed. For a while they remained motionless like ice sculptures, which they would soon become, too, if they didn't move. He started shuddering, his eyes burned and became teary with cold. And Bernard, stubbornly, wouldn't move.

  
  
"For Ford's sake, Bernard, please!" he begged.

"Why? Why should I go on?" Bernard asked theatrically. 

"What is there in life for me? All I had, all I where..."

"All you had was trash and all you were was nobody! Everyone hated you, they laughed about you... why do you mourn that world? I don't understand it, really, Bernard. What, what is there that you could possibly miss about that world? You yourself told me, told me a thousand times, that you hated it!"

"And don't tell me it's too cold here, that could easily be helped if just you'd finally act like a grown man!"

  
"But here is nothing, nobody... it's exile, Helmholtz, exile! It's worse than Iceland!" the shorter man wailed.

  
  
"What should there be? Obstacle Golf? Bumble-puppy? Soma bars and social service? You hate that! Don't tell me you miss it! And who, I ask, you, who should be here, who is not? I am here, Bernard, and although I'm very sorry to have to say this, I am your only friend!"

  
  
Bernard hung his head in defeat, but still didn't move. Helmholtz shook his head. He again put down the luggage, went to Bernard and simply dragged him towards the house, a small, red brick-house, with white windows and tiny stairs by the door. Bernard showed no resistance, he did indeed seem rather grateful to finally get into the warmth without having to give in. 

Helmholtz unlocked the door and found the electric light, and soon after he had placed the sulking form of his friend on the small couch in the living room, he found the central heating and turned it on. He looked into the cupboards of the narrow kitchen but the only think he found was an empty freezer and a box with something that looked remotely like the dried grass and some cups, pots and cutlery. He went back to the living room. Bernard hadn't moved from the spot where he had left him, sitting gingerly on the edge of the couch. He hadn't taken off his anorak and he still wore his shawl. He looked miserable. 

"There's no food," Helmholtz said practically. Bernard shrugged. He sat down beside his friend. Living with Bernard. Not an all too pleasant thought. It wasn't that he didn't like him. Bernard, with all his faults, had moments of brilliance, when he was by far more independent from societies expectations than Helmholtz. He had a talent to find situations and places that made you even lonelier. Bernard had suggested not playing stupid games, but walking in the parks. Helmholtz had never even thought of that. Bernard had insisted of talking instead of going to the feelies, Bernard had told him how lonely it was in the clouds of a stormy day, or above the sea at night, when you flew with your helicopter. And Bernard was, as that woman Lenina had put it, cute. Sometimes his whining was annoying, but at times it also amused Helmholtz, and that combination of amusement, sympathy and pity he felt for him made short man seem almost cute.

  
"Look, Bernard, what I wanted to say earlier, is that... that this place isn't all bad. The people here are real people, not just those mindless idiots of London. They will accept us. They will respect us." 

"They will accept you," Bernard said plaintively. 

"No! Bernard, there isn't any reason why a reasonable person shouldn't like you! You're intelligent, you're interesting, you're good-looking." Bernard laughed without mirth.

"Very amusing." 

"Oh, when will you quit listening to that foolish talk about your height! It's only sleep school! It's only their conditioning that tells them not to like shorter people! And away from that you're looking perfectly normal. Your friend Lenina told me she found you attractive. And she was a good- looking girl if there ever was one!" Bernard sighed at the mention of Lenina. 

"She didn't love me," he said accusingly. "Of course she didn't! Her conditioning interdicted it." 

"She loved John." 

"John?" This was news to him. 

"The Savage?"

"Yes."

"Loved him? Really loved him?" 

"I think so. You didn't know her as well as I do. I watched her watching him. I think that's love - no, I know that's love, because it was exactly the way I watched her, then, when she didn't even recognise me. And I did love her." 

Helmholtz was taken aback. He had never even noticed these things. Bernard loved. Craved his love like in those poems of that old poet Shakespeare. And his love was unrequited. And Lenina loved John. And John, for all he had guessed, had fancied the girl. But they had never done it... there they were, those feelings he had thought were forgotten, those feelings he had wanted to write about, write about them like Shakespeare had, and he had never even known it! He had searched for the poetry in his mind and had been blind for the poetry that was life. 

"And you tell me I have no reason to be miserable?" Bernard asked, looking at him for the first time in a while. His eyes were reddened and shining like in a fever. Helmholtz was caught in a whole jumble of incomprehensible feelings. He felt confusion and he envied Bernard, because Bernard always knew misery, and now Bernard knew love, too. And he, Helmholtz, who needed those so desperately, did not. And he felt a new surge of sympathy for poor Bernard. He really had bad luck. And he felt a very little bit jealous, because there was somebody who was more important to Bernard than he. He had always imagined Bernard as dependant of him. It was getting warmer. Bernard finally took off his coat. He seemed somewhat calmer now that he had told him the reasons for his desolation. 

"She is the thing I miss about the past."


	3. Higher

3

There is no moment more silent and serene than sunrise being watched after a night spent awake. It is a cold, slightly floating feeling, that makes him think of stale coffee, of burning eyes, of white light and the roofs of a still comatose city. It is an ageless, indifferent, drained feeling. It is infinitely beautiful. 

And he does not even see the sun. He only sees her light, first a diffuse, grey creep, gradually winning over the velvet darkness, then a definite area of light, white light, stripes of white light on the wall facing the single small window. In the beginning , they are high up the wall, near the wooden ceiling, then they slowly travel downwards. 

Sunrise has sounds, too. First of all, the silence. The silence that is not an absence of sound, but a sound itself. Then, a singing voice, high, smoky, sad. Underlined with metallic, distorted music, very low, very faded. No birds here. Even the wind rests for a short moment. 

Sunrise, the fusion of loneliness and the feeling of loosing one's identity. 

This is not what Bernhard thinks, in these moments. He feels like this, but he doesn't think it. His thoughts have been twisted and broken, have be conditioned and formed like little men from mud. But his feelings, these ugly, sad, lonely feelings, they are all his own. As long as he doesn't consciously think about them. As soon as he does that – click! – _'I don't want to be lonely. Being alone is no good. No, no I don't want to be alone. I don't want to be lonely. Being alone is no good. No, no...'_

Good people avoid being alone. Being alone is bad, is dangerous, is disgusting, is scary. Being alone is obscene. 

Bernhard turns again. He does not want to see the sun rise. He does not want to see her light. He closes his eyes. He does not want to see her light...

Lying in bed never brought any good. A good Alpha rises at eight in the morning, washes, eats, goes to work. Everyone does. It is quite silly to believe that you could break that routine by staying in bed. Because that routine is inside you. 

+++

Helmholtz was not used to walking very long to get anywhere, in London there had always been helicopters and electric cars to avoid walking. He had a vague idea now, why that was so: few things made you think like a long, quiet walk outside does. How terrible would that be for all those whose greatest fear was a thought, a real thought!

He woke up early in the morning, like always, and as Bernhard was nowhere to be seen, he had decided to visit the 'village'. He wondered quietly why there little hut was so far away from everything else. The road was old and marred by many cracks. He shivered in the biting arctic wind. They would have to get other clothes! Hopefully Bernhard had not caught a cold the day before. Bernhard was a riddle to him, still. He always tried to understand him, but you could not understand Bernhard. He was not a logical person. That was the only thing, Helmholtz understood. 

He knew the man for almost six years now, since he had been 23 and Bernhard 24. They had both just started their jobs, back then. And they had both incidentally known the same girl: a Justine or Kristine... yes, Kristine had been her name, a tall blonde and freckled Beta plus, nice enough but not the brightest in his opinion. But in those days that had not yet mattered very much to him. He had just started his job as Emotional Engineer. He had been in the feelies department for a while and by then had just written his first sleep conditioning phrases, a huge success. He was content, felt that writing was making him happy, that the world was alright. He was so naive then, believing that he could write whatever he wanted. 

He had had a date with Kristine that day, an afternoon of obstacle golf. But he nearly skipped the date. That morning an article he had written for one of the Alpha newspapers had been refused for the first time. 'It is not bad, Mr Watson, not bad, I'm afraid though, that we cannot print that. It is... is kind of disturbing. Those... lines. Those thingies. The song I mean. You'll have to leave them out," his boss had said, sweat on his upper lip. 

Those thingies had been a poem. Only a short, harmless poem, a praise even, to something harmless and ordinary. A girl maybe. Oh, had he been naive. 

He was crushed. Speechless. Like he had suddenly realised that there was no ground under his feet. 

But he had not thought about the date until it was too late and he had to go there. When he arrived at the helicopter platform, to his surprise there was another man with Kristine. His first impression was: a Beta, maybe even a Gamma plus. So short! And those dark, gloomy, distrusting eyes. That was his first impression of Bernhard. He did not like him, from the start. In the end he learned from the flushed and giggling Kristine that she had accidentally dated both of them and did not want to disappoint either man, so she had decided to go playing with both instead! Wasn't that ever so lovely. Oh, he could have run away. Ever so lovely. 

It was one of these obnoxiously bright days, a publicity blue sky, toothpaste smiles, birds. Better than a movie. Kristine was so enthusiastic about the game that she did not realise how both men fell behind more and more. After a while they gave up chasing after her and sat down on the white plastic seats from where you could watch the fields and the hundreds of players. They where all so happy, so alike, they seemed to be identical twins in their common bliss. 

Only Helmholtz, stunned, nervous, suddenly confused, and Bernhard, jealous, angry and at the same time intimidated by the tall and handsome Alpha plus by his side. They sat in broody silence next to each other. Helmholtz had already totally forgotten the man. 

"How I hate this sport," Bernhard suddenly, involuntarily spat. He surely wouldn't have dared it but had no control over himself. He blushed and looked away. 

"Oh, is that so. You like Bumble puppy better?" Helmholtz asked politely but disinterestedly. But Bernhard visibly crumbled, bit his lip and stared on the ground. 

"No," he mumbled. Helmholtz raised a brow. What a strange man, really. What had been his name again? Marx?

"I'm not particularly fond of sports either," he shrugged. Now it was Bernhard's turn to raise a brow, but in a more ironical way. 

"Really. You don't look like it." Helmholtz knew nothing to say. 

"I rather stay at home and write," he said instead. They said nothing more that day. But it was strange. Normally neither Bernhard nor him would have admitted these things. Why did they do it? Because it had been a bad day for both of them? Or did they instinctively realise that there was a person who felt the same?

+++

He shivered and started to walk faster. The wind blew trough his trousers like they weren't there at all. Little ice crystals got caught in his hair and on his lashes. The sea appeared behind a hill, a dirty quicksilver turmoil. Wouldn't he reach the village soon?

The second time he had met Bernhard, he was on a date with Kristine, too. It was their last date, he remembered, but he had forgotten why. Probably they had been dating too long. It was on the tennis courts, they had been watching a game. He had had a strange feeling that day, like they were being watched. When Kristine went away to get them something, soda or some ice-cream, he had scanned the seats around them. A cheery crowd of upper cast people. Suddenly he caught a pair of dark, almost frightened eyes. Bernhard stared at him like a rabbit at the snake. He blushed and suddenly jumped from his seat, earning frowns from the other people. Then he was away. 

"I saw your friend Bernhard," he told Kristine when she returned. Raspberry milkshakes. That had been what she was getting, he remembered now. The tip of rosy white on her upper lip. She frowned with her thin, sandy eyebrows. 

"Bernhard Marx? How awful," she exclaimed and sucked at her straw. 

"I thought you liked him?"

"Until I heard those rumours! People say that there has been something wrong with his blood surrogate when he was still in his bottle!" The crowd cheered at the jumping players. "Isn't that just terrible? Alcohol in his blood! Just like an Epsilon! Of course, he is so short...," her voice was drowned by the noise. 

Helmholtz stared at his drink. A lower caste, that had been his first impression about Bernhard, too. But those rumours were silly, it was one of the most common urban legend of their time, talk about something wrong when someone had still be bottled. He didn't know why, but something in his mind refused to believe that. 

"...and how strange he is! He is always ashamed! He doesn't want to kiss in front of people. He says it embarrasses him, can you imagine that?" Helmholtz could not, but still. 

"And now he's following me around! He scares me. How awful." She stared sullenly at the game. Then, suddenly, she took her handbag. "Soma?" she asked with e smile. 

After that, he didn't see Bernhard for almost three months and had already forgotten about the whole thing. He did not meet Kristine anymore, so it did not matter to him. He had his own problems. Repeatedly, his works had been refused. And then, one day, his boss had looked very strange at him and given him a small, baby blue envelope. It had been an summons to the world controllers office. 

That could not mean anything good. But he did not ask. He did not talk about it to anyone. That alone was an arch-sin. _Secrets are asocial_ , the whispering voice of sleep school rang in his ears.

It rained that day, and the office smelled of wet leaves and lavender. A lift filled with the sounds of a rushing mountain brook brought him to a room filled with black leather surrogate seats, and wide windows showing the cascading rain over London. It was perfectly silent, and he needed a second glance to notice the shrunken form of a man in a seat in the corner. He had buried his hands in his short dark hair. Never had Helmholtz seen a man so sad, or desperate. The names for these feeling nearly didn't find their way into his mind. 

"Marx?" he asked, incredulously. Bernhard looked up, startled and scared. When he recognised him, a dark look crossed his face. Still, Helmholtz sat down next to him. 

"What are you doing here?" he asked curiously. Maybe he would learn something about what it meant to be summoned here. 

"I'm... visiting someone," Bernhard lied. He raised a brow. For someone lying so much, Bernhard always had been a bloody bad liar. 

"The world controller?" The man looked away, to the rain-streaked window. Blurred light played on his face. The shadows of the rain almost looked like tears. 

"They're going to send me away," he whispered. "This time they're doing it!"

"What did you do?" Helmholtz asked. He had always been curious and straightforward, maybe a little too curious.

"Our friend Kristine," Bernhard said bitterly. He looked at him with burning eyes. In that moment Helmholtz knew why he didn't believe the rumours. He had never seen a Gamma, Delta or Epsilon look like that. Never. 

"She told it a friend and he must have talked to the controller."

"But what?"

"That I followed her around."

"Why did you do it?"

"I didn't!" Bernhard exclaimed, but then he sunk back into his seat. "I wanted to see her." 

"But why..."

"But she didn't to see me. She says I disgust her! She went with other men, every day. I only wanted to..." It was the first time that he felt like that about Bernhard, but the feeling would never cease. Fascinated, astonished, a little amused, sympathetic. Pitiful. He could not quite understand the other man's problems, but he felt the injustice. 

The door opposite to the door he had entered the room through opened. A tall woman in a grey suit came through it. She had very short, dark hair and bright, almost colourless grey eyes. She was not what people would call pretty, not very pneumatic, looking more like a man than a woman. But something about her attracted him. Something that was so very different from the soft, sweet, effeminate beauty he was used to. The world controller. 

"Mr Marx?" she asked. They both got up and Bernhard nodded curtly. Helmholtz could see his legs shaking. 

"I am Elisa Armstrong, world controller. Please come with me." He followed her to her office like it would be his last walk. Impulsively Helmholtz came with them. The woman raised her dark arched eyebrows. 

"Mr Watson, I guess? I'll talk to you later," she said politely. There was something in her voice he could not quite discern. Nothing hostile. He had not been very familiar with the concept of irony, back then. "Or do you have something to say about Mr Marx' case?"

"In fact I have," he said without think about it. she sent him a short, scrutinising look, but then closed the door behind them. The office had looked different that time from what he had seen when they had visited world controller Mond, only the big black book of Ford on her desk was the same. She sat down and studied them for a moment. There was something about her, a feeling like she was constantly holding back something, some strange dangerous energy behind her light eyes. 

"Well, Mr Marx. There have been several reports about your unorthodox behaviour. I'm sure you know about what I am talking?" Bernhard said nothing, staring down on his cramped hands. 

"Do you have anything to say about it? Any explanation? You know that this will not be passed unnoticed!" Bernhard shivered. Helmholtz almost couldn't take it. Why didn't say anything? Why didn't he defend himself?

"We can not tolerate your antisocial behaviour."

"Mrs Armstrong?"

"Yes Mr Watson?"

"You are talking about the incident where Mrs Kristine Freud accidentally believed Mr Marx was following her around?"

"Yes I am. So?"

"May I explain?" He smiled at her apologetically. "He was not following her, but me. We were meeting... that day." She looked at Bernhard. Bernhard stared at his hands, his eyes wide. But he nodded. 

"See," Helmholtz said jovially. He almost couldn't believe himself. Why was he lying to a world controller? Why was he helping this man when he knew the accusations were true?

"You know each other?"

"Yes, a passing acquaintance."

"And what did you want to do that day?"

"Why, playing obstacle golf, of course!" 

+++ 

His own talk with the world controller was a little different, once Marx had got away. 

"I have read your articles, Mr Watson," she began. "You are very talented. Wonderful gift for rhymes."

"Thank you. But why were they refused?"

"So you don't know," she said thoughtfully and rose from her seat. She went to her window, looking out. Helicopters were passing by like silent bumblebees, their sound muted by the strong windows. 

"When I was a young as you are now, I was very much alike you. I thought that I would write the most wonderful things. Songs, essays, that would touch the minds and hearts of my fellows in a way no one had reached yet. The aim of every writer. But I had to learn, Watson." She turned around, bent over the desk and looked directly into his eyes. 

"True art is dangerous, Watson. You may touch their hearts – but never change them!"

+++

He left the building as a different man. He had, for the first time, felt his restraints. And they were not the kind, gentle restraints of conditioning. 

Rain was still pouring down on the pavement. Bernhard stood their, unmoving, his hair plastered to his dripping head, rivulets of rain running down his face, into his collar, over his hands and to the ground. He stared at him, unbelieving still. 

+++

"Dreams of you carry me higher

than soma haze will ever do,

and still I cannot reach you,

and still I cannot reach you..."

Helmholtz whispered the lines while he walked down the last hill to the village. He remembered it vividly, a silly, naive poem to someone who did not exist. One might take it for a love poem, but it was not. He also remembered how Bernhard had laughed when he had first read it to him. It was the first thing he ever read to him, that day after the talk with the world controller. He had taken Bernhard to his flat, they had dried and drunk caffeine surrogate in silence, then he had explained to Bernhard why he had been there. 

Bernhard had not been able to imagine that world would be forbidden. Then Helmholtz had recited the lines, naive little words. And Bernhard had laughed. 

"What?" he asked irritably. 

"And you really thought they would print that?" Bernhard shook his head. "'Dreams of you carry me higher than soma haze will ever do...' my, Watson, to even imagine there might be something higher than soma!"

He had blinked then, struck by his words. Of course. He hadn't noticed before. He had unconsciously written what he had felt all his life: that there was something higher... 

Yes, that had been the moment when he first got a glimpse of Bernhard's brilliance. From then on he always showed his writing to Bernhard before he submitted it to anyone else. Bernhard would sort out the lines that were 'dangerous' with a scary precision. He knew exactly what society wanted, because he himself was like those lines: dangerous, different. 

A risky game started. He would put all his energy into writing pieces that seemed on the surface harmless, but would come as close to forbidden as possible. Very often he would not dare to submit them, Bernhard staying his one and only audience. But sometimes he did and they were accepted. He had reached a frail balance with society. 

That was over now, he thought as he walked between the houses of the main village, aiming for the outstanding building of the ADMINISTRATION CENTRE. 


	4. The Relativity of Truth

Disclaimer: 'Brave New World' and all its characters belong to A. Huxley. The Falklands and their capital, Stanley, don't belong to me. All original characters do.

Warnings: None

A/N: A very nice person reminded me of this fic! In fact, I have been writing and rewriting this chapter for months, but I could never quite bring myself to post it. There are several reasons for that: 1)The plot. This does (or will) have a plot and not a small or simple one. I honestly don't think I'll ever complete it, because it would have to be a novel. 2)Bernard and Helmholtz. I confess, I'm very tempted to slash these two. But I know my audience is small, and probably half of you would run scared. Tell me if you wouldn't! 3)The island society. Sooner or later, I'll have to describe the island society. It would have to be utopian, a real, positive Utopia, and that scares me. 4) I'm writing so many other fics!

Thanks for reading and reviewing!

* * *

**Chapter Four : The Relativity of Truth**

"We get food – bad food, but food -, we get a car, we get all kinds of useless things like books and games and if we requested for it, we would even get the newest scientific equipment. But they won't give us soma! Why? Why not soma?"

Helmholtz frowned. His good-natured patience was coming to an end. It was early in the morning of their tenth day on the Falklands and Bernard was already whining. He could tolerate small doses of Bernard's bad moods, but living with him proved more unnerving than he had thought.

In the beginning he had thought nothing of sharing the house with his friend. Normally, people didn't share their flats, but he had not come here to live the 'normal' way. And obviously there was a shortage of living space on the island. But their house was isolated and he was spending more time with Bernard than ever before. Why had the Falkland administration just put them together like this? They hadn't even been asked.

Bernard seemed to do nothing but complain. Well, he also looked balefully and sulked in his room, but most of his energy went into endless streams of complaints. Totally unreasonable complaints.

Soma, for example, was not addictive. People relied psychologically on the substance, but their bodies didn't need it. There were no bad side-effects, no hangovers – it was the perfect drug.

"I think it's a good thing that they don't give us soma," Helmholtz said.

"It's just another way to torment us!"

"I think John was perfectly right to try and take the soma away from those Deltas. Of course, he shouldn't have tried it with Deltas, but the use of soma is degrading us."

"I don't care, it makes me happy. I could use some oblivion right now. Possibly forever," Bernard snapped.

"Soma doesn't make you happy."

"Yes it does!"

Helmholtz made an irritated noise. Bernard, being as bright as he was, should be able to see he was wrong. Many people couldn't discern the drugged animalistic pleasure of soma oblivion from actual happiness these day. But that was mainly because they never experienced any kind of happiness that wasn't shallow and stupid.

"Bernard, you did love Lenina, didn't you?" Helmholtz asked as gently as he could.

He thought that Bernard loved the girl. Genuinely loved her, in the sense of Shakespeare and not in the sense of feelies. He couldn't be sure, he had never experienced that kind of sentiment himself. The closest he had come to any kind of genuine feeling for anyone was the friendship with Bernard.

Bernard scrunched up his face in a mix of confusion and pain. "Love?" he whispered. "Love is... an obscenity."

"I think it is not," Helmholtz said with as much calmness as he could muster. Ever since he had discovered the library of old books that the Falklands provided them with, he was embracing all concepts he found in these works of art. And love was the most frequent topic of all. He was willing to see it as something positive, eager to experience it and he would not let Bernard deny it.

"You can admit it, you know? That's one of the advantages of being exiled, that you don't have to fear the censure anymore. And besides, you don't have to lie to me."

Bernard looked pallid from fear. He sighed shakily and looked up at the ceiling. "Yes. I did - I do love Lenina. I'm a freak."

Helmholtz would discuss this topic another time. Now he needed to prove his point about soma.

"And when she dated you – when she agreed to visit the Indian reservation with you, were you happy?"

"Do you need to remind me of it, now that I can't have it anymore? Of course I was! Happier than I ever have been!"

"When you thought you would be sent to Island for the first time and you weren't and could stay in London, were you happy?"

Bernard stared angrily at him, but he nodded. Helmholtz smiled.

"Does soma even compare? Can you honestly say that it makes you happy?"

Bernard got up from the table where they had been eating breakfast. With shaky hands he gathered his cup and plate and put them into the sonic dishwasher. With his back to Helmholtz he softly said:

"No, it doesn't make me happy. But it makes me forget happiness and that's... that's what I want."

Since the Administration had given them the electric car, Helmholtz was paying daily visits to Stanley, the capital of the islands. The town was incredibly tiny and quiet in comparison to London. He barely ever saw people on the streets. The only place where people seemed to gather regularly was in the supplies shop and the town hall, where they would play games and commit themselves to activities like community singing. That somehow surprised Helmholtz. Was that all these people ever did? He had expected something else, something different.

Some of the people he met seemed perfectly normal to him. Young, pretty, smooth, friendly. Others had minor physical deformations – crippled limbs or scars. A few times he glimpsed people who looked actually old. But their conversations were just as dull and superficial as they had been at home.

Most of the time he spent in the library. There were hundreds of books, and he couldn't wait to devour them all. Many of them were even more confusing than the books of the savage. All of them went against his conditioning. Sometimes what he read was so appalling and alien that he couldn't stand it for more than an hour. But still he couldn't stop. The hidden depths of the world and the mind these books were revealing had drawn him in.

It was near the end of the second week on the Falklands, and he was reading the titles on the spines of the books, looking for something to take home with him.

"I thought I'd meet you here, sooner or later," someone announced behind him. The voice was low, but female.

Helmholtz turned around and met the eyes of a tall, lean woman of indecipherable age. Her hair was short and dark with some very few grey hairs, and her eyes had the colour of chrome. Her face was one of the very few truly striking faces he had seen in his life. He recognised her immediately.

"World Controller," he said, sounding nonplussed. She had been the World Controller before Mustapha Mond, and he had once met her when he had been reprimanded for the articles and verses he wrote. Armstrong was her name. He had lied to her to save Bernard from being exiled back then and he'd never seen her since.

"No longer. As you see, I am here."

Helmholtz followed his first impulse and asked : "Why? Who could exile a World Controller?"

Perhaps this was a stupid thing to ask, as she could very well not have been exiled at all. But she appeared only amused.

"I haven't been exiled, Mr Watson. I chose to come here some years ago. My life as a World Controller served the community, but it was less than fulfilling."

"I did so too! I mean, I chose the Falklands over the other islands. I had no choice about being exiled."

"Of course you did. Everyone on the Falklands chose this place. This island is a little different from many others. People who don't choose get Island or the North Pole or the Galapagos or some tropical paradise. Where do you think all these books come from? Only a very few high-ranking people can afford to keep forbidden books. World Controllers, namely. These books have been gathered in the course of many years by the select few who managed to preserve them and who retired to this place."

She looked him up and down, then she added : "What surprises me is that your companion chose this island as well. Mr Marx didn't seem the kind of man to do so."

Her speech was precise and direct. It also sounded cold, even clinical. She emanated authority even though she had none, now that she was merely another woman in exile. Helmholtz couldn't imagine her playing obstacle golf or frolicking in the parks. Perhaps World Controllers didn't do such things.

"Bernard mainly chose this place because I chose it. He and I were exiled for the same incident."

Again, she gave him a considering look before she answered. "I've heard all about your escapades with the savage from my successor. Mr Mond was fairly amused. And I must say I'm quite impressed. I thought you'd get problems, sooner or later, but not quite that huge problems. Something like that hasn't happened for decades, as far as I know."

Helmholtz kept quiet. There was no way he could respond to that. This was the kind of conversation that wasn't meant to be had in the world he had been raised in. People didn't think about the past. There was no such thing as history or impressing deeds.

That night, he told Bernard about the strange meeting. They were sitting in the living room of their little house and the light was dim and yellow. Outside, a storm howled through the night.

"A World Controller chose exile over her old life?" Bernard exclaimed. "Madness."

"Why? She told me herself – her life wasn't satisfying her. And she felt she had done enough service to the community. I think she enjoys herself here. As do I."

"I noticed."

"She wasn't the only one, Bernard. There must have been hundreds like her. I think that maybe it's something about Alpha double plusses that makes them want to leave the normal world and come to these free islands. Maybe their brilliant minds –"

"They're not conditioned the same way we are."

Helmholtz, interrupted in mid-sentence, closed his mouth and stared at Bernard.

"Come again?"

Bernard smirked.

"Future World Controllers are not conditioned like other citizens. Their sleep school is different."

"How do you know?" Of course, every caste was conditioned differently. But what Bernard implied was a difference so huge that it made Alpha double plusses predestined heretics.

"It's my job, what do you think? I'm a sleep-learning specialist. I have actually raised some future Alpha double plusses." Bernard thrived. He loved to be in any kind of superior position and now he had some definite advantage over Helmholtz. He made a grand gesture with his left hand.

"It's actually quite simple. They are not conditioned differently – they're conditioned less than we are."

Helmholtz jumped from his seat and started to pace. His long legs carried him through the small room far too quickly and he felt caged. This was highly disturbing. The wind howled and rattled at the windows and doors.

"Do you know what you're implying?" Helmholtz asked darkly.

"I'm not implying anything. I told you the facts."

"But Bernard! We've been taught in school and in our sleep : the conditioning is a good thing! It's supposed to be the only thing that saved civilisation from destroying itself. And yet the people who govern us are less conditioned than we are!" He wrung his hands in agitation. Bernard remained very still, but his eyes gleamed too brightly. He looked perversely fascinated, like someone watching a terrible catastrophe.

"As you said, they're the people who govern us. They can do whatever they want. They can go around all day and talk about mothers and fathers and forddamn love!"

Helmholtz froze. Too many thoughts were in his head and he found that his life hadn't prepared him for this. Soma and girls and silly sports and meaningless entertainment were... well, meaningless. He had known that, felt that, for some time. He had wanted to live in a different, harder, truer world. That was why he had chosen the Falklands. But this...

_Ending is better than mending. Everyone belongs to everyone. Deltas are ugly. Oh no, I don't want to play with Deltas. I like to be happy! I like playing! I don't want to be alone, oh no, being alone is bad, I don't want to..._

Thousands of repetitions all night until it became the truth. Was it all wrong? Was it a lie? No, it was necessary, necessary for peace and happiness.

"When I was still a child, I used to have nightmares," Bernard said softly. "All children have nightmares, but I had them more frequently. I used to wake up in the dark and then I heard the whispering voice under my pillow. I thought it was some kind of ... being, creature... under my bed. I was afraid of it, and I knew that something was wrong with me."

_I don't want to be different, oh no, being different is bad. I don't want to ..._

Helmholtz bit his lip. Being different was not bad. He was different. He wanted to be different. And yet he did feel guilty. He couldn't help it. He was worried.

_I want to do the best I can. I like to do the best I can. We all have to give our best. I want to ..._

"Future sleep-learning specialists have to pass all kinds of tests. They know that there are some people like us, Helmholtz, people who don't meet the standard in some way. Dangerous people. People who might do harm. I used to lie on those tests. It was easy... because I always clashed with the rules, I was more aware of them than others."

How much of what Helmholtz believed about himself was really true? Did he really want to be happy? Did he really want to do the best he could? Did he really enjoy his body more than his mind? Did he really like community singing? Could he really never, ever imagine doing to work of a Gamma? Did he really like grey better than khaki or green?

"I wanted this job because it would allow me to work alone. Otherwise I wouldn't have dared to lie on the tests." Bernard fell silent and frowned. "Are you alright?"

Helmholtz shook his head and raked a hand through his sweaty hair. "I'm merely confused..."

Bernard just looked at him. He wasn't good at comforting people. Helmholtz made a helpless waving gesture. "I think that green is a really ugly colour for clothes. But why do I think this? Is it really ugly? Or is it only ugly because I've been told so million times in my sleep? I think the latter is true, but I still can't help but find it ugly. It's as if... as if my mind doesn't belong to me anymore."

Bernhard shrugged and gave him a wry smile. "Well, it doesn't. You belong to your society. _Everyone belongs to everyone_. Your body as well as your mind."

"Yes," Helmholtz whispered. Somehow that sentence was reassuring. It was a truth he knew by heart. And yet – had his actions not defied this rule?

"Everyone serves the interest of society. Otherwise society cannot exist – and we cannot exist without society," Helmholtz repeated what he had learned in school. This was not a sleep lesson, it was something he understood. At least, he thought he understood.

Bernard nodded. "Right. Sleep lesson No. 2786 a. _Everyone needs everyone else_."

Helmholtz raised his head, horrified. "It's a sleep lesson? But I thought we learned it in school! It was explained to us! I thought it made sense... But if it was a sleep lesson, that we had no choice but to agree."

"Well," Bernard said, stretching his arms, "it really doesn't make that big a difference whether a child learns a lesson in their sleep or in their school. The only difference is that the lessons we learn in sleep, we perceive as innate truths that came out of ourselves. But if you had only learned it in school, you would probably still believe in it. You do believe in the laws of physics, don't you?"

Helmholtz remained silent. Bernard was going to prove a point and he was going to use physics as an example. Bernard had a definite advantage over him on the field of natural science.

"You do, for example, believe that an object that moves in an absolute vacuum will never cease to move."

"Probably I do..." Helmholtz already felt confused.

"You would if you had any idea about physics at all," Bernard said with friendly scorn. "Even though you have never witnessed an absolute vacuum. It could be wrong. It could be a lie. But do we ever doubt the things we're told in school? For example, we are all told that savages like John are inferior to us for all kinds of reasons. Now look at John. Wasn't he intelligent, attractive and likeable?"

For a long time, Helmholtz said nothing. He had not thought that to begin a new life, he would eventually have to shatter his old one.

"Were you always like that?" He asked eventually.

"Like what?" Bernard replied irritably.

"Did you always doubt everything?"

Bernard looked away, to the rattling windows and the black raging storm outside. He seemed to be lost in thought and there was something about his smooth young face that suggested age before the time.

"Most of my life I forced myself not to ask questions."

Bernard began to feel better.

Of course, better didn't mean good. He had been desperately miserable and now he was only a bit miserable. He couldn't quite tell what had alleviated his spirits. Perhaps it was the fact that since their conversation about sleep school and World Controllers, Helmholtz was a lot less stable and happy than he used to be.

His friend seemed to have lost his mad enthusiasm about the island. He would stare at the most ridiculous things – spoons or socks for example – as if they might hold a deep truth about the universe.

And inexplicably, as Helmholtz felt worse, Bernard felt better. The island was still cold and horrible and the house still too quiet and uncomfortable. But things started to look up.

The next time Helmholtz drove with their electric car to the town, Bernard asked to accompany him. The town was as he remembered it: small and dreary and eerily quiet. What were those islanders doing the whole time? There were no schools and no hatcheries and the islands certainly lacked sports facilities. Did the people even work here? Or did they just sit around in their houses all day, contemplating their unlucky fate?

They stopped at the supplies store – it was not really a store, as they didn't have to pay for the things they got here – and loaded food and other articles into their car. Then Helmholtz wanted to go to the library.

Bernard stayed outside the Administration Centre, pacing up and down the pavement next to their car. A harsh wind pulled relentlessly at his jacket. The air always smelled salty and fishy on this island, but something about the cold, wet stream of air against his face was oddly refreshing. He had always liked rain and storms better than sunshine. Another part of him that was freakish, he thought darkly, as he remembered Lenina's reaction to the dark, roiling sea under their helicopter. He had wanted to frighten her with the sight. Her reaction had only confirmed what he already knew: he was ugly and frightening.

Suddenly he felt watched. This slight paranoia was something he had felt almost constantly in his old life, but since they were on the island, it had been gone. The worst case scenario of his life had come true and there was no reason to fear the prying eyes of others anymore. Still, the hairs on his neck rose in an archaic reaction to danger. He turned around.

But this time, he was being watched. Not a phantom, but a tall woman in a white raincoat was looking calmly at him from the top of the stairs. She was too thin and too broad-shouldered by the standards of society and her face too hard and too keenly intelligent. Of course he recognised her. She was the second most scary person he had ever met, second only to World Controller Mond.

"Good morning, Mr Marx," the Ex-World Controller said without a smile. "You look a little bored."

What was the appropriate thing to say in such a situation? Was there even an appropriate reaction? Well, she wasn't really a World Controller anymore. There was nothing she could do to him.

"Your island doesn't offer many distractions," he said, trying to sound nonchalant, but failing badly.

"Indeed, it doesn't." She walked down the staircase and closed some of the distance between them. Bernard hoped Helmholtz would return soon. "Not even soma."

He almost jumped at her words. His paranoia returned with new force. How did she know that he had complained about the lack of soma? Did she know at all or had she just made a lucky guess?

Her grey eyes glinted. "At least, no soma for you."

Bernard's heart stopped beating for a second, but then he bristled. "What do you mean, no soma for me?"

"I made sure that the two of you would not get soma."

All his instincts told him to run and hide. Or maybe to curl into a foetal position on the pavement. He didn't know which option he preferred.

"Why?" he croaked. And how? His mind added. Did she still possess so much power?

"Because I have plans for you."

"Oh," he said faintly. Oh no. Help.

"You're bored, Mr Marx. This island seems incredibly dull to you. Right you are!" A thin smile appeared on her face. She made a wide, sweeping gesture with her left hand that somehow encompassed the whole island, the small houses and empty streets. Involuntarily, he took a step back and almost bumped into their car.

"Hundreds of highly talented Alphas, Mr Marx! Rebel and misfits, most of them. Did you think a few ugly huts and some empty streets is all there is to this island?"


End file.
